"Yes, yes! but how could I be to him there what I have been to him up to this hour? I should no longer be his father; I should become his serving-man. They would take his heart away from me little by little; they would spoil and ruin my child. Do I not know something about the life of lords and rich people? Food a little more delicate, clothes a little finer, words a little smoother; but are they happier? God knows we cannot tell anything about it. Ask them if they do not weep in secret, if there are no sad moments spent under their roofs, if their happiness is as great, as pure, as it appears from a distance."
"It is doubtless your great grief which causes you to talk in this way," cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Their life is not like ours, that is certain. If our fate is the better of the two, why is it that all do not wish to live as we do? It is indeed a rare thing that a great lord is willing of his own accord to live as we do; while each one of us, on the contrary, would like to taste their bread. But the truth must be told."
Iermola remained silent for a few moments, leaning his head on his hand.
"Neighbour," said he, at last, "when we shall come to die, it will then matter very little to us whether during our lives we have eaten bread of fine wheat flour or coarse rye bread; no matter how a man has lived, it will be all the same to him, provided he has clean hands and a pure conscience to present before God. And as for knowing whether my child will then have been better off as lord of his father's house or with me, a potter in the old inn, upon my word, it is a serious question which I cannot take upon myself to answer."
"But you will nevertheless be obliged to give him up; there is no way of avoiding it."
"I shall not prevent him from following them if he will; but he must choose between us, because I myself wish to die as I have lived. I shall lay my bones in our old cemetery. I have already tasted the bread of servitude. I will not go in my last years to hold out my hand and bow down before young fools who would laugh at me,--not for any amount. I will remain in Popielnia; as for Radionek, if he wishes, he can go play the lord at Malyczki."
"And how will you be able to live without him, poor old man?"
"And you, how have you managed to live without Horpyna, without your grandchildren? Unless, indeed, you can see them by stealth."
"Ah! that is true, that is true," sighed the widow. "With pain and tears we rear our children, to see them, as soon as they have wings, fly out of the nest; as for us, we are left behind with broken wings to look at them far off."
"It is not for long, however," added Iermola, with a sad smile; "our days are numbered. A few more will pass, and then death will come knocking gently at our window; our eyes will close, and all will be over. We shall then have only to render our account to the Lord God."